


Neutrois

by wehdile



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gender Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehdile/pseuds/wehdile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first person he really tells is a mistake, a slip of the tongue in a moment of weakness. It happens while he shares a smoke outside of the arcade with Mr. Robot, half listening to his mad ranting where topics blur together until the entire world seems a conspiracy. Elliot's thoughts bunch together as a coming storm on the horizon, the question perched at the back of his throat and he can't do a thing to stop it from bursting out.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Can someone be a man but not really feel like one?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neutrois

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwistaLolita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistaLolita/gifts).



> *rubs my little gender neutral hands on elliot* does this upset you >:3c
> 
> Seriously though, this was mainly written for Twista who dragged me into this hell that is watching Mr. Robot. It's incredibly self indulgent as Elliot's gender doesn't seem relevant to the show but that's why headcanons were made! Besides if fanfiction like this resonates with someone and helps them to reaffirm/figure out their own identity, then I'll have done my job as a writer.
> 
> So I'm dedicating this fic to him because he and I really dig the idea of agender/neutrois Elliot.

Elliot fiddles around with the idea for a while. He changes the sex on his medical records to 'F' once, then leaves the category purposefully blank. Just to see what will happen. Both times they were changed probably by an underpaid nurse working the night shift, with 'M', the same letter on the copy of his birth certificate.

That should settle it. It's what's on his license right below his date of birth and besides his wide-eyed mug shot. Male. He should be satisfied with that because he's got a dick and that's the epitome of being a man. He's not into sports or cars or anything super macho. It was the same for girly stuff like cooking or dolls or whatever else Angela likes. Angela is fairly feminine. She uses make-up and wears dresses and high heels, complains about how the computer software field is a goddamn sausage fest. Elliot has to agree, men outnumber women. Whether or not he's included in that sausage fest is the only question he can't answer. Doubt infects him, corrupts his brain until he's running on empty so caught up in this question of what he is.

Once he tries to look it up on the Internet. Types 'dont feel like a guy’ into Google and nearly bruises his fingertips with the force he applies to keys, closing the tab before any links have the chance to load. Too close. He goes out on a walk with Flipper to distract his mind, smokes a cigarette on the darkened pier with Flipper besides him on the bench.

Flipper is a good dog. She licks his hand when he cries and barks him out of his head when she wants attention. Now, she listens patiently as he fumbles his explanation until he's distracted enough singes a finger on the stump of his cigarette. Flipper licks his finger and gives him a knowing look before she leads him home.

Elliot feels better. It isn't the same as talking to another human being but it is enough to sate him for a few days. Then that calm is gone and he's back to bottling up his questions, objections, emotions -- all the usual repression.

The first person he really tells is a mistake, a slip of the tongue in a moment of weakness. It happens while he shares a smoke outside of the arcade with Mr. Robot, half listening to his mad ranting where topics blur together until the entire world seems a conspiracy. Elliot's thoughts bunch together as a coming storm on the horizon, the question perched at the back of his throat and he can't do a thing to stop it from bursting out.

"Can someone be a man but not really feel like one?"

Silence. The cigarette wobbles between Elliot's trembling fingers, gaze flicking back and forth between Mr. Robot and the blank white wall on the other side of the alley. Mr. Robot gestures for the cigarette and Elliot passes it to him, stuffing both hands into his pockets to somehow hide himself from the embarrassment.

“Yeah…I guess if you wanted to.” It’s barely above a question the way he says it, blowing smoke out of his nose in a slow, thoughtful exhale.

“Ok.”

“Why?” he asks, turns to Elliot, “You know someone like that?” There’s a pause and then the dreaded follow up question he knew would come: “Is that how you feel?”

In his pockets Elliot’s hands squeeze into fists, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms. He wants to run, hide, tell Mr. Robot to mind his fucking business, say yes, and say no all at once. Instead, he just shrugs.

“Whatever you want kiddo.” Mr. Robot finishes off the cigarette and throws it on the ground to crush it beneath his heel. “None of my business.”

“Ok,” he saying and walking past Mr. Robot, back into the arcade away from his confession. Still, somehow, he feels better having said it out loud. Makes it real and not his schizo mind chasing itself around in circles over make believe terms. He feels better. Mind cleared he can get back to work, fingers flying over the keyboard as he chases another lead for fsociety. This is important, more important than any identity crisis.

Hours later, the rustle of paper draws his eyes from the scene and down to the stack of papers slid in front of him.

“Important stuff,” Mr. Robot explains, taps the top page with his index finger before he’s off to grab a handful of popcorn out of the machine. Elliot looks down and skims the pages for what expects to be something related to bringing down EvliCorp. Instead he gets page after page filled with jargon he doesn’t understand: gender dysphoria, non-binary, genderqueer, gender expression and identity. 

Does everyone else know? Elliot’s chest tightens. It’s ridiculous he should brush it off no one could possibly know what’s typed on these prints outs. The paranoia won’t leave him and before he knows it he’s thrusting everything—laptop, snack bar, phone, papers—into his bag and getting up far too quickly. No on reacts except Darlene who asks if she can crash at his place again. Elliot doesn’t respond, he’ll text her later.

The subway home is spent fidgeting between the throngs of people who pack the car as they ride to work, go home, and travel to wherever they hide their dirty little secrets. Do they know his secret? He gets off the train five stops ahead of his usual one when their stares get too much for him but the walk home is no better. He should have known better then to tell anyone, Mr. Robot especially. It all goes away when he locks the front door and can finally drop his backpack far away from him, on the bed, and safely extract the pages to read in privacy with Flipper nosing her way into his lap. Elliot doesn’t even notice, he’s too engrossed by what he’s reading and it all clicks into place.

Maybe telling someone wasn’t such a bad idea.


End file.
